


Fountain

by fordisgay



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Ableism, Autistic Grunkle Ford, Gen, Jewish Pines Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-14 15:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fordisgay/pseuds/fordisgay
Summary: With national deinstitutionalization comes the reintroduction of a Jersey boy to his family, as far-flung as they may be. With the reintroduction to family, comes another Jersey boy’s identity crisis. With the identity crisis, comes learning to see the world as really and truly shitty, and seeing his mirror image as just as human as he is, and needing protection from that cruel and shit world. Stanley Pines isn’t cut out for this. But he’s not cut out for much, really.(Title taken from the song “fountain” by iamamiwhoami)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note to people who love to fetishize mental hospital AUs/love horror movies that demonize mentally ill people: This is not for you.
> 
> I've always wondered about the hypothetical scenario where Stan didn't have Ford around and they weren't constantly compared to each other. I think Stan would have flourished (no offense to Ford, it's not his fault that the adults in their life fixated on his academic achievements and then abused Stan for being "stupid"). So this idea was born. Short background, since people in the story will dance around the subject because in ye olden days of the 20th century, you didn't talk about mental hospitals, and you didn't mention if you had a relative in there, because why be kind to and care for your mentally ill/disabled relative when you could just be an asshole and lock them away? /sarcasm.
> 
> But Ford was sent away to a mental hospital by Filbrick as a very very young child (about 4) because he was autistic and exhibited behaviors most people inaccurately describe as "low-functioning" (making noise, flapping hands, rocking, having trouble with tasks like eating and such). Ford also has paranoid schizophrenia that developed in early adulthood (since this is when it most often begins to affect people who have schizophrenia), because he seems to display very obvious symptoms of it in the cartoon (just like autistic behaviors, which he also exhibits often in the show).
> 
> Also Stan and Fiddleford are friends, because I think without Stan being brotherly-y territorial over Ford's attention/affection, he'd get along pretty well with the 2 ounces of whoop-ass named McGucket. They both like to fight people, their friendship is inevitable.

**May 30, 1982**

**San Francisco, California**

 

He wants to throw the phone out the window. Every time it rings, without fail, it makes him nearly jump out of his skin and the metal rattling against itself grates on his ears. But he already gave into a fit of rage a couple months ago when he took his Louisville slugger to the old alarm clock and smashed it all to hell, and then promptly had to go buy a new one since not even McGucket could fix it, so. He knows now he has to temper the anger at being startled, lest he have to contact the phone company from a phone booth down the street and get a new one.

 

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he grumbles, tucking the slender brush behind his ear and wiping his wet paint-covered fingers on his jeans before he scuffs to the phone. “Hello?”

 

“ _Stanley, it’s ya mother,_ ” a high-pitched Jersey cadence comes through the receiver, and Stan holds back a huff.

 

“Hey, Ma,” he greets halfheartedly, casting a glance back at the canvas he’d been pulled from. “Whaddya need?” _Please don’t say money, please don’t say money._ He’s had to lend his parents a lot lately for one reason or another, and it’s getting old. Real old. It’s less fun than you’d think, being the most successful out of all his family. Because they never stop begging him for cash.

 

“ _Your father’s dead._ ”

 

Stan blinks. Twice, the second time slowly, owlishly. “Oh,” is all he manages.

 

It’s silent for a moment. Or several, he’s not sure. Ma says nothing. Stan says nothing. They just sit.

 

And then Ma seems to rouse herself, remembering long-distance is incredibly expensive, and asks, “ _Will you come to the funeral_?”

 

He leans his palm flat on the work table, mulling it over. Dad’s finally dead. Kicked the bucket, croaked, rolled belly up, moved on to greener pastures. But does he want to go to the funeral? _Fuck no_ , his mind answers bitterly. Outwardly, he hedges, “I gotta… I gotta think about it.”

 

“ _‘M not asking you to sit shiva_ ,” Ma replies, quietly this time. “ _I just thought… you know, all that hokum about ‘closure’ and whatevah_.”

 

She understands his misgivings, even if he’s never really voiced them. After Shermie moved out, Ma sort of… clung to Stan. They became each other’s confidants. Even if that confiding was only a shared look when Dad was in one of his moods. She’d still call him after he got kicked out. Still tell him she loved him, even when he felt so alone, hitchhiking across the country and trying to find something he could do with his life. She knows he hates his father. She never even argued with him, and she couldn’t, really. Not after all the years she’d passively taken Filbrick’s verbal abuse because what was she going to do, take her two boys and run away to even worse poverty? So Stan clung to Ma and Ma clung to Stan. That was how it was, from the time he was fourteen to now, at thirty.

 

“I gotta think,” he repeats.

 

He hears a sigh on the phone, faintly, and thinks they’re about to say their goodbyes. He pulls the phone cord as he leans to get a look at his painting again. Needs more lighting adjustment. And shading. He’s terrible at shading.

 

“ _There’s somethin’ else,_ ” Ma starts, making Stan’s eyes dart back to the receiver against his ear. _What else could there be? … Oh._ He knows what it is, and his lips flatten into an annoyed line.

 

“Lemme guess. You need money,” Stan grumbles, trying not to sound aggravated and failing. Failing hard.

 

“ _That’s not… Well, I do, but… I don’t know how to tell ya this…_ ”

 

“Ma, _what_ ?” He presses, eyes looking at the ceiling. _I’m busy, I gotta get back to work, I don’t have time for this_ -

 

“ _You have a brother_ ,” she blurts out.

 

Stan snorts before he can help himself. Ma’s jokes are always pretty terrible, but this one takes the cake. “Yeah, I’m aware. And Shermie’s always been an asshole.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Ma reprimands, shutting down Stan’s half-amused smile. “ _That’s not… ugh_ ,” she growls, and he can almost see her tugging at the lock of hair curled around her finger. “ _You think you’re so smart._ ”

 

“Meh. Comes and goes,” he replies, shrugging.

 

“ _Oy!_ ” Ma exclaims frustratedly. “ _You schmuck, I’m tryin’ to tell ya somethin’ important here!_ ”

 

“It ain’t my fault ya beat around the bush!” Stan fires back, leaning more on the work table and glaring at the space where Ma would be across from him if she were there in the apartment.

 

“ _I mean ya gotta_ **_twin_ ** _, Stanley Pines!_ ” Ma shouts in the phone, causing him to yank the receiver away from his ear and cringe.

 

Then it registers. “Wh… what the fuck?”

 

“ _Language_ ,” Ma lectures automatically.

 

“You called me a dick 2 seconds ago, _and_ I’m 30 years old. _What the fuck_ ,” he says more forcefully this time, eyebrows raising and then furrowing in bafflement. “Who just… calls somebody, and says somethin’ like that?!” Forget being told your dad died, this is… just _bizarre_ . “Since when the fuck do I have a twin, Ma? Huh? Are you _high_?”

 

“ _I would_ **_never_ ** _smoke marijuana!_ ” Ma gasps, and Stan rolls his eyes so hard he’s sure they almost fell out of their sockets.

 

“You’re full of shit! You’re the one who told me it’d calm me down!” Stan balls his left hand into a fist, gripping the phone tighter in his other hand, before realizing, “Hey, don’t change the subject! Why’d ya tell me outta nowhere I gotta dead twin?”

 

His mother’s silent for a minute, and her voice is sobering when she says, “He’s not dead, Stanley. He’s thirty, like you are.”

 

“H… h-how?” His voice trembles a little, and he looks over his shoulder. He feels as spooked as the time he went to find the Jersey Devil in the woods near his grandparents’ house. At night, alone, because he had no sense at ten years old.

 

“He… He’s been away.” Ma’s dancing around something. He just doesn’t know what.

 

“No shit,” he mumbles, though it doesn’t have any heat to it. He’s confused, and a little freaked, and doesn’t have any fire in him now. Just cold dread that makes the hair on his arms stand up. “Ma, where’s he been?” He presses, nerves growing at the thought of what her answer could be. Coma? Kidnapped? Dad sent him away before Stan even remembered?

 

Turns out to be option C. He doesn’t respond more than appropriate hums to Ma’s words. His eyes focus on nothing across the table now, face pale as he fumbles the phone back into its cradle.

 

He has two brothers. One older by four years, one older by just fifteen minutes. One who looks only vaguely like him, one who apparently looks identical to him, except for the sixth finger on each hand. One joined the army and went to ‘Nam just to get his college paid for, one never went to school at all. One married with three kids and a house not far from Stan, though they never visit. One… in a nuthouse in Jersey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! There's some ableist language near the end, use of the R slur, and derogatory references to "crazy people". Also I'm not sure if what I wrote in one part counts as serophobia, but I'm warning for it just in case. It's the 80s. It was a disastrous time (not like modern day is much less of a hellscape, though).

**May 31, 1982**

**San Francisco, California**

 

He didn’t get much sleep last night. Kinda hard to, when your thoughts are mobbed by things like “I have an identical twin I didn’t know about for my entire life” and “my twin is a mental patient”. So he tossed and turned and buried himself under the covers and then threw all the covers off the bed around 4:45 and gave up and went to the main room to try finishing that commissioned painting.

 

He got close. It needs a little something more. But he can’t figure out that “something” on an empty stomach, so he’s meeting Fiddleford for lunch. Since he was painting before sunup one moment and then blinked and suddenly it was noon.

 

Stan runs a hand through his curly brown hair, pushing up on the bridge of his glasses as he scuffs up to the glass door, pulling it open and stepping into the air conditioned din of the small chicken place Fiddleford has been insisting Stan try for months. _“It’s t’die for, Stan, just t’die for!”_ The blond’s twang echoes in Stan’s head, calling “ _Over here, over here_ ,” “STAN!” a loud voice breaks him out of his head, shouting from the actual real world and not just his memory.

 

His head whips to the left, eyes zeroing in on Fiddleford waving him over, and he hurries over before Fiddleford can start caterwauling his name again. Stan slides into the booth, wincing as the table corner jabs into his admittedly fat stomach, settling into the vinyl and putting his hands together, leaning his chin on them and letting his skinny friend do the talking.

 

“Howdy,” Fiddleford happily greets. “Gotcha a Pitt Cola already.” The man eyes him with a raised brow as Stan sucks down half the cup in just a second or two. “You dry as a bone?”

 

“Long night, then I painted for seven straight hours without realizing.” Stan one-handedly takes off his frames, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. “How’s uh…” He glances around, lowering his voice to ask, “How’s boy hunting?”

 

Fiddleford sighs wearily, head in his hand as he swirls his straw reflexively. “S’like I’m askin’ for the world, instead of just somebody who won’t act like my ex. Or somebody who’s clean.”

 

Stan grunts, somewhat sympathetically, and examines the laminated menu. “Condoms,” is all he replies, none too helpfully given Fiddleford’s eyeroll.

 

“I ain’t riskin’ it. Rubber that thin’ll tear too easy. This is too…” Fiddleford frowns, tapping his fingers on the table nervously as his leg jimmies up and down.

 

“It’s life and death,” Stan mutters. They both know better than to talk too loud about this kind of thing in public, unless they’re in somewhere like the red light district or a very… glittery club, so to speak.

 

“Mmhmm,” Fiddleford replies, anxiety seeping even into his hum.

 

Stan nudges his friend’s leg with his sneaker comfortingly. “It’ll be fine. You’re more careful than prolly… anybody in 100 miles.” He spreads out his hands, hoping the friendly jab will at least put Fiddleford at ease.

 

It works. Fiddleford’s shoulders release some of their tension and he nods. “Yer right. Just wish the pickins weren’t so slim and all.”

 

“To be fair to literally everybody, not a lotta people like nerdy math dragon games,” Fiddleford opens his mouth to argue immediately, and Stan holds up a hand. “Let me finish. Not a lotta people like ‘personal computers’” he does air quotes for emphasis, “or scary giant killer robots, or late night banjo playing, or hearing about the best way to butcher a hog and cook it. Hell, I don’t even like it, and I love bacon.”

 

“Hmph,” Fiddleford huffs, sitting back. “Well, I can see where our friendship stands.”

 

Stan cuffs his friend’s forearm affectionately. “Aw, come on. You know I like you, Fidds. Yer fuckin’ weird, yeah, but so am I. I’m just sayin’ that your dating pool’s a little slim, between your interests, and your uh…”

 

“Standards for a partner.”

 

“Yeah, that. You just… gotta give it some time. And maybe… compromise a little.”

 

“I ain’t _ever_ sleepin’ with Sanchez. He’s a nasty know-it-all,” Fiddleford interrupts, looking a little more fluffed up and ruffled, like a cat with its hackles raised.

 

Stan puts up his hands, palms facing away to placate him. “Nobody said anything about Sanchez. That was a one-time suggestion.”

 

“A darn shitty suggestion.”

 

“Still just a one-time thing,” Stan reassures. “I hadn’t seen him in awhile. Forgot how much he smells… and drinks… and belches in people’s faces… and acts like a jackass to previous lovers…” Stan trails off, grumbling the last part out as a dark look comes over his face. He’s not bitter. Not at all. Not upset in the least that the first guy he was with proceeded to make fun of him the entire last time he saw him. He doesn’t have enormous regrets that keep him up at night at all. Nope. None. He doesn’t wish he punched Rick Sanchez in the face. Never.

 

He shakes himself. “Anyway,” Stan continues, “I mean compromise with uh… you know, maybe on interests. You don’t have to have _everything_ in common with somebody.”

 

“Stanley, I had no standards when I got married. I then spent the next seven years picking up after a manchild and now I don’t even get to see my kid except in photos and a telephone call every two weeks. I’m not fuckin’ this up a second time.”

 

“No, no, I get it,” Stan’s voice takes on a soothing tone, realizing this subject is even sorer for his friend today than he thought. “Maybe just one thing different. Maybe he likes football. So you watch some games with ‘im. And then the rest of the time you guys talk about arcade games and math.”

 

Fiddleford wrinkles his nose, but before he can say anything about how much he despises football (again), their waitress comes up. Short coiffed black hair, shirt and tie… Ah, San Francisco. The only place Stan’s ever been where there’s entire areas of town filled with people even somewhat like him. They both get chicken and waffles, because Fiddleford _insists_ he has to try them, and Stan is a big fan of two things. 1, greasy fried chicken and 2, hot belgian waffles. So he concedes and asks for a refill on his Pitt Cola too. And a coffee. He almost calls the girl back to ask about maybe getting the whole coffee pot, but thinks better of it before he looks like a weirdo.

 

“Nuff about me,” the blond starts when they’re alone again. “How’s your commission comin’?”

 

“It needs somethin’ still. I’m so close I can feel it, almost.” Stan clenches his fist, thinking over the canvas that’s been an unwelcome elephant in his living room for the past two weeks. “I just can’t figure out what else it needs.”

 

“Shame yer client was so… vague,” Fiddleford hedges, trying to put it nicely and avoid Stan getting fired up about it again.

 

“Oy, you don’t even _know_ how fucking vague it was! ‘I want a forest glade in the Ozark Mountains’. What the _fuck_ ? Go hire somebody from BFE, Arkansas then! I don’t know what the Ozarks look like! I went through St. Louis when I came cross-country! I can paint trees around here, it’s all redwoods and cedar and shit. I can even paint Nor’Easter maples and oaks and shit too. But… they gave me _the_ most obscure fucking location.”

 

“Mmhmm,” Fiddleford hums, letting Stan’s rant float around his head and politely tuning him out. _My fault for bringin’ it up._ He wonders if Stan’s worked up about it mostly because it required going to the library and doing research, two things his friend hates more than anything. _Prolly that._

 

Stan rants until their food comes, and by that point Fiddleford’s ready to break the window with the mini hammer in his pocket and bail on his friend, so he’s grateful that Stan stuffs his face immediately.

 

“Okay, you were right, this is good.” Stan sinks his teeth into another chicken leg, Fiddleford layering an unhealthy amount of salt over his own.

 

“Told ya,” he replies, smugly as his mouth quirks up in satisfaction. When will Stan learn? He knows food, and he knows what food Stan will like. Stan’s got a heart for the kind of greasy, bread-y, filling food Fiddleford grew up with, so it’s easy to figure out if he’ll like what Fiddleford’s eaten. Same palates, and all. Though it’ll be a cold day in hell before he eats Stan’s favorite candy. Toffee peanuts, licorice, saltwater taffy… yuck.

 

They escape afterward to the outside air, letting the sun warm them up and heading for the closest park, where ice cream carts usually flock for the best business this time of year. Fiddleford hooks his thumbs through the loops on his jean shorts, strolling along next to Stan, who has his hands shoved in his windbreaker pockets.

 

“Can I… ask you something?”

 

“Sure, shoot,” Fiddleford replies, looking around. A couple kids yelling excitedly as they play frisbee and blow bubbles. Dogs barking here and there. It’s nice to have nothing happening. Reminds him of growing up in the mountains on his family’s farm. Nothing much ever happened.

 

“Okay so. What if you, hypothetically, found out you had a relative, and they disappeared before you could even remember they existed. And then you get told a whole lifetime later that hey, this person exists, and they’re um…” Stan sort of ducks his head, watching the sidewalk as they move along. “They’re in a loony bin.”

 

“That’s a specific hypothetical,” Fiddleford replies carefully. “Where’d’you get that scenario?”

 

“Um, Twilight Zone,” Stan stutters out. “It’s been… bugging me,” he mumbles as they come to a stop under a redbud tree, pink flowered branches leaning down closely over them.

 

“Well,” Fiddleford draws out slowly, moving his tongue along his teeth. “Are you worried you’ll turn out crazy?” Because there’s no way Stan got that from TV. Too specific. Stan’s too anxious about it.

 

Stan sputters, eyes wide as he scrambles to come up with a good lie, but he can’t. His shoulders sag and he sits heavily on the short brick wall next to them. “You got me. Yeah.”

 

“Ah.” He sits next to Stan, fiddling a shirt button between his thumb and forefinger. “What do they have?”

 

“Huh?” Stan’s brow furrows as he looks over, blinking as he tries to understand.

 

“What does your relative have that means they have to stay in the hospital? I uh… I have a cousin. He’s got somethin’ called bipolar, so he had to stay in a mental hospital for awhile. Till the place got shut down and then he got arrested real quick. So what’s this relative’a yours got?”

 

Stan groans a little, putting his head in his hands. “I don’t know. I just found out yesterday. He’s been in there my whole life. His whole life. I don’t know what brand of crazy he is, just…”

 

Fiddleford pats his shoulder comfortingly. “Y’don’t seem any crazier than normal, if that helps.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” the brunet grumbles sarcastically, sighing. “I just… I don’t know. It’s really freaking me out.” Stan looks up at him, worry in his brown eyes. “He’s my twin, Fiddleford,” Stan says lowly, so quietly he has to lean in to hear.

 

“Your… Twin?” He blinks, paling a little. “I s’pose… that would explain why… it’s botherin’ you this much.”

 

“Yeah.” Stan slumps again. “He’s been in there our whole lives. I don’t even _remember_ him, no matter how hard I try to think back in my head, try to remember somebody who… who looks like me. All I can remember is stupid Shermie. Ma just called me yesterday, tells me my dad’s dead-”

 

“Your dad passed?”

 

“Mmhmm. Good riddance.”

 

“Mm. Sorry, still.”

 

Stan waves a hand absently. “S’fine. But then she tells me about… about _him_ . And I don’t get why she picked _now_ of all times.”

 

“Stan, you haven’t heard?”

 

“Heard what?”

 

Fiddleford pulls back on Stan’s jacket to get him to sit up. “It’s in the papers. They’ve been shutting down those hospitals all over the country. My guess is… well, your brother ain’t got a place to go now. Your mama’s probably… taken him in, or will soon.”

 

“ _Shiiit_ ,” Stan hisses, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “Great. Fucking great.”

 

“Are y’goin’ to your dad’s funeral?” Fiddleford wonders, keeping an arm swung around Stan’s shoulders for moral support.

 

“Ugh. Probably. I don’t wanna go, but I should. I guess. As an adult, I should go. Ma said it’d give me ‘closure’.” Stan makes a disgruntled face, glowering at the flower petal-dusted sidewalk.

 

“‘Fraid she’s right. You’ll see he’s dead in the dirt and it’ll help you close that book, y’know. It’s done, you don’t have to think about him no more. He’s not gonna hang over your head and make ya feel small no more. ‘S’what I got from my Pa dyin’, anyway.” Fiddleford shrugs, pushing his glasses up. “Plus if ya go, maybe… maybe y’could meet him? Your brother, I mean. Lots of… lots of uncrazy people get put in there, y’know.”

 

“How d’you know?” Stan asks, unconvinced.

 

“I got interested in that whole bit of healthcare for a lil while, after I found out ‘bout my cousin. Read lotsa books. They put disabled folks in there. The… um… retarded ones, y’know. I shouldn’t say that, it’s um…” He snaps his fingers, trying to think of the word. “Oh! Intellectual disabled. That’s it. Yeah, those sorts’a people get put in those places. Your brother may be one’a them, not somebody crazy.”

 

Stan actually perks up visibly at that. “Really? So… there’s a chance he’s not… not crazy? Just… disabled or somethin’?”

 

“A pretty good chance, really. Though, even crazy ones can’t really help it and all. Lot of ‘em just feel bad about themselves and such.”

 

“McGucket, I could kiss you if we wouldn’t get beat up for it.”

 

Fiddleford laughs loudly at that, throwing his head back. “Now Stanley, I don’t kiss unless you buy me dinner first, and I recall _I’m_ the one who got the check earlier.”

 

Stan shoves him backwards off the wall for that, Fiddleford landing on the grass behind them with a yelp. “Don’t flatter yourself, beanpole.”

 

“Hmph,” Fiddleford grumbles, skittering to his feet and dusting grass off himself in a huff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're confused as to why Fiddleford said his ex is a "manchild" even though gay people couldn't get married in the 70s, it's because Fiddleford is a transgender man. He and his ex divorced when Fiddleford couldn't take being in the closet anymore. Figured that would clear it up, since it's not a big deal so it's not like there'll be a "big reveal" or any of that noise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments that have been left already seriously made me smile with so much joy, thank you everyone!
> 
> Alright, here we go. You guys finally get to meet Ford. I wanted Stan to sort of get along with him immediately, sort of an innate sense of what to do (twins sometimes have that weird extra sense about the other twin, even in real life). Writing Ford is a little hard to figure out, since I have to balance his behaviors due to just being autistic and never having anybody really bother trying to meet him at his level, as well as his behaviors as a result of abuse from doctors and nurses. Plus I don't want to infantilize him, but still... you know, see him as realistically struggling with a lot of things other people usually find more or less pretty easy at his age. It's a hard balance to strike, but hey. I've taken on tougher tasks.

**June 1, 1982**

**Atlantic City, New Jersey**

 

“Welcome to New Jersey” the sign above him read. He didn’t stop to take in the sights and sounds. It was just as foul as he remembered. Stan strides forward, plowing on through the throngs of people and keeping a tight grip on the backpack slung over his shoulder, never slowing enough for someone to pickpocket him.

 

He hates New Jersey. He fucking hates it. All he ever did here as a kid was watch out for broken glass hidden in the sand on the beach, avoid getting nasty seawater in his mouth when he swam, tool around the boardwalk and doing nothing because he was broke, and learn to deck people in the face who wouldn’t leave him alone. Shitty state. Top to bottom shitty.

 

“Stanley Pines!” A deep voice shouts. It’s the brother he knows, waving him over from several feet away. His dark hair is closely cropped, and he now has… a beard? Yeesh. They really do never visit each other.

 

Ma told him Shermie flew to Jersey when Dad was still on his deathbed. Stan has to admit, he’s thankful their mother didn’t tell him about Dad until after the asshole was already dead. He would never have set foot near the airport if she asked him to come when Dad was alive.

 

“Hey, Shermie,” he musters, faking a pleasant expression.

 

“I’m surprised you actually came,” Shermie replies, expression almost schooled, save for the ice in his voice.

 

Okay, so apparently this is how they’re gonna start off. He shrugs and turns away, already bored with this. “I’m gonna get my suitcase.” He makes his escape casually, though he can feel Shermie’s eyes on the back of his head.

 

Things are… well, they’ve never been ‘good’. Shermie resents the fact Ma likes Stan best. And he also always hung on Dad’s every word, so he feels imperious over Stan, the screwup who got thrown out at 16 before he even finished high school. Now he’s jealous because Stan ended up successful and has money and high rise apartment, while Shermie wasted his life serving the army and now sitting at a desk job doing accounts receivable or whatever the fuck (honestly, he doesn’t care enough to learn what exactly his brother does, he just knows it’s mind numbing) and lives in some boring cookie cutter house in the suburbs.

 

Not gonna lie, he feels smug that he did better than Dad’s precious little golden boy. He does pretty good when he’s got spite to motivate him.

 

Stan follows Shermie out of the crowded lobby, suitcase rolling behind him, to the station wagon waiting in the parking lot. It’s cloudy, dark enough grey to block the sun. Might rain later. A fitting welcome from nature on his return to shit Jersey.

 

“We have to pick up Mom,” Shermie informs him in a clipped tone the second Stan even starts to crawl into the front seat.

 

“She ain’t at home?”

 

He’s not sure what about that one question set his brother off, but Shermie gets an ugly look on his face. “Just shut up and close the door,” he snaps.

 

Stan shuts the door much harder than he needs to, working his jaw and keeping his tongue firmly between his teeth.  _ I hate you, I hate your wife, I hate your kids, you’re the worst brother, they’re the worst nephews and nieces, I’m gonna hate their kids, my great nephews and great nieces will be shit like you guys, I hate Dad, I hate this city, I hate Glass Shard Beach, I hate this state, I hate the weather, I hate everything here… _

 

* * *

 

About an hour later, thanks to traffic, he finds out what’s got Shermie’s tidy-whities in a twist. The station wagon pulls up to the parking lot, and he can feel the anger rolling hot off Shermie just a couple feet away from him as his brother parks, hands gripping the wheel even after the car is turned off.

 

“She here about… him?” Stan asks as carefully as he can. Last thing they need is to have a blowout yelling match like the last time they were left alone, especially in a parking lot of a mental institution. Embarrassing, even if his brother deserves a good verbal whipping for being such an unrightful jerk.

 

“Yes,” Shermie replies, no less angry than before. “Let’s go.” He’s out of the car in no time at all, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving Stan in silence.

 

_ Schmuck _ , Stanley thinks, sighing and reluctantly unbuckling the seat belt, listening to the zip of it going back into position. He edges out of the car, not wanting to bang the door against anything. The car is cruddy, but Shermie really will lose his shit if he even thinks Stan hurt his precious station wagon.

 

Stan looks up at the building as they walk to the front doors. It doesn’t look… so bad, he supposes. Less creepy than he imagined. It’s stark white, with windows on each floor, about three floors high. Looks kind of like an office building and hospital combined. Then he notices the fence. Vertical black bars bent inward at the top. Hard to climb, keeps people in.

 

_ Also combined with a prison _ , his mind quickly corrects, hurrying to catch up with Shermie and walking inside with him.

 

Mom is waiting in the lobby, nervously worrying her lip and curling her hair around her finger to ease her anxiety. Stan can’t say he blames her. The room isn’t bad, but it reminds him too much of a hospital in a horror movie he saw. “Sherman, Stanley!” Mom jumps up, and Stan notices she’s foregone heels (for the first time he can ever remember really) for flat keds. She stands as tall as him now, rather than two inches above. “I ah, I signed the paperwork like ya told me, Sherman. But since you signed some, they wouldn’t let me… let me see him, until you could come back with me.”

 

She’s clinging to Shermie’s arm, desperate, and Stan remembers again why Ma’s clung to him for so long even over the phone. Dad didn’t ever give her much affection like her sons did. And now he’s dead, so she’s depending on them to be strong men in her life making decisions.

 

A nurse dressed in a classic white uniform takes them through double doors down hallway after hallway, all uneventful and pretty typical of a hospital, up a flight of stairs, and down another three boring hallways. They finally stop at a door with a glass criss-crossed window, and the nurse unlocks it. “Your son is in here, Mrs. Pines. He’s been behaved today, so we let him have recreation time.” All four of them step into the room, with white walls, white floors, and a plain white bed with a white blanket. In the middle of the floor is…

 

Stan, but not Stan. Ma wasn’t kidding when she said “identical twins”. Shermie shoots him a look, and Stan swallows hard, mouth dry as he stares. Brother. Other brother. Twin. The word feels foreign in his head. He’s not a twin… but he is.

 

His twin has brown curly hair, shorter than his own. Same brown eyes. Same face-defining curved nose. Same eternal red patch across his nose and cheeks, face always flushed even when though they haven’t done anything exerting. He’s much thinner than Stan, white hospital gown hiding his frame except for his exposed back, where Stan can count his ribs and the vertebrae of his spine. Now he notices that, he also notices how dirty his brother’s hair looks and the dark circles under his eyes. There are bulky black square glasses on his face, sliding down his nose from not being tight enough. More alike than different on the surface, which is weird. It’s like looking in a mirror, almost.

 

“Stanford,” Ma says hesitantly, taking a small step forward. He doesn’t move or respond. “Stanford,” she says louder, taking another step. “Sweetheart, it’s Mama, remember?”

 

He expects his brother-- _ Stanford _ \--to suddenly lash out, leap forward, attack their mother. Shermie is stiff next to him, obviously expecting the same as he watches Stanford like a hawk.

 

But Stanford doesn’t do anything. He continues as before, moving the crayon in his hand back and forth across the paper.

 

_ “Disabled. Your brother may be one’a them, not somebody crazy.” _ He remembers Fiddleford saying. Stan cautiously steps forward, looking over Stanford’s drawing. It’s… the outside, the parking lot and the grey sky, just from a higher view overlooking everything. He’s shading in the asphalt with what little is left of the black crayon. Stan slowly takes a knee, and asks, “Whatcha drawin’ there, slick?”

 

Stanford takes a minute to answer, and Stan watches as he shades in the last little corner before he drops the crayon with finality and looks up immediately once he does. “Drawing the outside,” Stanford answers, voice not what he expected (what did he expect though? Not sure). It’s not as guttural as Stanley’s own voice, not gravelly. It’s still deeper like his own, but it has a different cadence. Flat, not really any trace of Jersey, and more in his head while Stan’s is more in his chest.

 

He doesn’t pay attention to Ma gasping and her hands flying to her mouth, or Shermie staring at Stanford with all the judgement he can muster. He just says, “Oh, that’s cool. I recognized it. Can I see?” Stanford silently passes him the paper, and Stan looks over it. “I like how you did the sky. You used some grey and then left some of it white.” He checks Stanford’s face, and watches him nod. “Do you like drawing?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Can we wrap this up?” Shermie interrupts, frustrated. “Mom, are we leaving or not?”

 

“Sherman, hang on, we’ll go soon, okay, we’ll go,” Ma placates. “Stanford, honey, I brought ya some new clothes to wear. We’re gonna go somewhere new today.” She holds out the plastic bag. Stanford doesn’t move to take it, so Stan does before anyone can have an adverse reaction.

 

“Underwear, jeans, tshirt, sweater, socks, and shoes,” Stan lists off as he sifts through the bag, Stanford looking in as Stan moves things around to show him. “Here, you should go change into these.”

 

Stanford leaves the bag on the floor as he stands, beginning to lift up the bottom of his hospital gown, and Stan and Shermie and Ma all erupt in a cacophony of telling him “No no no nO!” He looks like a deer caught in the headlights as his eyes dart over them all, face bewildered as he shrinks away.

 

“Honey,” Ma picks up the bag, “The bathroom. That’s where ya change clothes, yeah? Go there and change.” She points to the small bathroom door in the corner, handing Stanford the bag, and he takes it without a word, retreating to the door and shutting it quickly behind him.

 

Stan hears his older brother mutter something along the lines of “freak”, but doesn’t have the energy to hash that out right now, so he ignores it and crosses his arms to wait. Five minutes pass. Then ten minutes. At the fifteen minute mark, Ma asks Stan to go check on him, since Stanford responded to him the most. He sighs, and uneasily moves to the bathroom door, knocking. No answer. Bracing himself, he grimaces before opening the door.

 

Stanford is on the floor, pants unfastened, socks on his feet, no shirt or sweater on, holding one shoe in his hands as he stares at it like they’re in a contest to see who looks away first. He breaks his gaze to look up at Stan after a few seconds, and he sees a flash of fear cross his brother’s face.

 

“Hey. You uh… you need help?” He offers. When he gets a small nod, Stan kneels down and blows out some air, thinking over what all needs to be done. “Okay, let’s see… Shirt, let’s do shirt first.” Stanford interrupts him by holding up the sweater, and then shows him the shirt. “Shirt first, then we put on the sweater.” Before he can reach for either, Stanford pulls the shirt over his head and then repeats with the sweater, having no problems now.  _ Must’ve cleared up which one goes first _ .

 

“What is this?” Stanford asks quietly as he taps the sneakers with his pointer finger.

 

“Shoes. You never wear shoes here?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Oh. Um. Okay, so, just pull this part up,” Stan pulls the tongue up for Stanford, “Then you put your foot in. I’ll tie ‘em for you.” They manage easily enough with that, his twin picking things up quickly, and Stan knots the laces doubly. “Let’s fasten your pants, huh? Don’t wanna be caught with your fly down. I’ve done that before. Girls laugh at ya, your boss looks at you weird, it’s just embarrassing.” He reaches forward without thinking, finger grazing the metal button…

 

And receives a hard open-palmed slap to the side of his head for that, as well as an angry almost-warrior cry from Stanford, seeing stars for a minute as he fumbles around for the glasses that got knocked off his face. He hears footsteps rush over to the bathroom and stumbles to his feet, blinking to clear his vision.

 

“What the hell happened? He hit you?”

 

“Stanley, what happened?”

 

He puts his hands up to calm them down. “It’s… it’s fine, yeesh! Relax. He hit me for good reason, alright. I’d hit somebody too if he tried zipping up my pants.” Stan rubs his temple nonetheless. “Go… back over there. Gimme a minute.”

 

Ma seems reluctant to go, and so does Shermie, but for opposing reasons. Ma out of worry, Shermie out of anger towards Stanford. When they do finally leave, Stan turns back to his twin and gets on the floor again. “Okay, wise guy. That,” he says, pointing at Stanford, “Is not something I’m gonna let you do twice. You hit me again, I’ll hit ya back. But, I get it. You don’t want some random guy touchin’ you.”

 

Stanford shakes his head once, firmly, as he draws his knees up to his chest.

 

“See, I getcha. You’re okay at copying stuff people do, right?” At his brother’s tentative nod, Stan gets to his feet. “Okay, stand up. I’ll show you how to do the button, then you can do it yourself. Nobody touching anybody this way.”

 

It takes three tries, but hey, third time’s the charm. The jeans are a little tight on Stanford, which doesn’t help him get them buttoned faster, but they do it quick enough nobody gripes about the length of time again. Stan strolls out feeling pretty proud of himself, and Stanford follows behind, grimacing at the feeling of shoes on his feet.

 

“Don’t you look nice, sweetheart!” Ma exclaims when she sees Stanford in his jeans, red turtleneck sweater, and blue sneakers. “Ya look just like your brothah!”

 

Stan and Ford both look at each other at the same time, eyes tracking down each other’s forms to their sneakers and back up again, though Stanford’s eyes focus on a point past Stan’s ear while his eyes look right into Stanford’s own. Same brown with flecks of gold. Same unbelievable amount of eyelashes that probably get stuck in his eyes (Stan’s yanked out six at a time before just trying to get one out). Same hairy brows and even similar black square glasses. Though, Stan likes to think his look better, cooler, than Stanford’s hospital-issue chunky ones.

 

“Let’s  _ go _ ,” Shermie grinds out, leading Ma out the door.

 

“Go?” Stanford asks a beat too late, brother and mother already gone. He looks to Stan, confused, and Stan realizes his twin had no real idea they were leaving.

 

“We’re gonna go outside. Away from here.”

 

“Why?”

 

“This place doesn’t have any money. Can’t keep ya here without money. So.” He shrugs. “You’re gonna come with us. Gonna… come home.”

 

He leans his head forward a little, as if to understand better. “Home?”

 

“Yeah,” Stan breathes out, realizing this is getting to him fast. “It’s uh… it’s where families live. Hey,” he breaks off before Stanford can ask more questions, leaning down to scoop up the papers on the floor, “Don’t forget these.” He hands them to his brother, scooping up the crayons and stuffing them into their flimsy little box, cramming that into his back pocket. “Come on, let’s go. Otherwise Shermie’ll yell at us again. He’s kind of an asshole.”

 

So they go. Down hallway after hallway, down the stairs (which Stanford has trouble navigating and has to half-slide down while clinging to the rail, Stan waiting at the landing and waving him forward encouragingly while Stanford stares petrified at the long fall potentially awaiting him), and down more hallways, through the lobby, outside. Stanford stares straight up at the clouds, fascinated apparently as he breathes the acrid smell of Atlantic City, until Stan sort of nudges him out of his trance, forward to the car.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy howdy, this was a pain to write. Took me literally all week and most of the chapter was written today (from the part where Stan's packing up boxes to the end, was written in an hour). But hey, I got it done! Before Sunday was my goal for posting a new chapter, and I did it!

**June 1, 1982**

**On the road, New Jersey**

 

The car’s tension has relaxed somewhat in the drive to Glass Shard Beach, though not by much. Stanford sits silently with Stan in the backseat, and it’s almost like they’re kids confined to the backseat, mother and grown older brother in the front where adults sit. Shermie grips the wheel so tightly his knuckles are red and white speckled. Ma nervously tip-taps her red nails on the manila folder she got from the hospital. The single file folder containing all of Stanford’s life from age 4 to age 30. Stan can’t really wrap his around the idea a whole person, a whole life, can be put in a folder.

 

He looks over from the window to his left, where Stanford sits with his cheek against the glass, gazing at everything they zoom past. His sleeve cuff hasn’t left its place in Stanford’s mouth almost the whole time, and when Stan shifts closer he can hear his brother sucking on it between his teeth. He used to do that as a kid, but grew out of it. Guess Stanford never did.

 

The tension started when they got in the car, and Stanford didn’t understand what was meant by a seatbelt. So Stan had tried to help him again, but Stanford screamed like he was being murdered, trying to panickedly maneuver away from Stan in the small space trapped against the door while Shermie screamed back at Stanford to shut up, and Ma tried to get everyone to shut up to no avail. Stan reeled away, out of the line of any fire from Stanford’s fists, and told Shermie to shut the fuck up, and they gave it a couple minutes, Stanford’s cries dying down to quiet moaning as he put his hands around his head and neck protectively, drawing in on himself.

 

It ended up that Stanford would not (maybe could not) wear a seatbelt, so Stan just buckled his and told his brother it was fine, he didn’t have to wear it, until he calmed down for good.

 

Now they’re almost to town. Almost to Stan’s childhood home. It’s crowded all to hell this week, with Ma, Stan, Shermie, Shermie’s wife, Shermie’s three kids, and now Stanford. But they’ll have to make it work. Somehow.

 

“Hey, Stanford,” Stan says quietly, carefully tapping his shoulder to get his attention. His brother turns his head, seeming almost sedated with how relaxed he is. “You wanna play a game?”

 

“A game?” He perks up at that, eyes brightening as he takes the sleeve out of his mouth.

 

“Yeah. So, we look at the cars passing, and each round we play, we try to spot as many cars of a certain kind as we can. Like uh…” Stan looks through the windshield, pointing to a blue car. “Like that one. So every car you see that’s blue, you give me a little tap, like this,” he demonstrates with a soft tap on Stanford’s arm. “And I’ll tap you every time I see a blue car. And whoever counts the most blue cars, wins.”

 

Stan quickly realizes he’s inherently outmatched. Stanford taps him almost rapidfire the rest of the way to the lead paint district, spotting blue car after blue car before Stan even gets a good look at ‘em. He gets maybe four taps on his brother, and that’s being generous. Oy. Stan used to be the king at this game. But in just half an hour he’s been dethroned, even kicked out of the castle. He’s gotta admit, it’s impressive. Stanford looks gleeful as Stan gives up and tells him “alright, alright, you’re totally the winner here”, so. He really can’t complain about losing.

 

* * *

 

**Same day**

**Pines Pawns, New Jersey**

 

Shermie’s kids are already staring at Stanford like he’s got three heads and green skin the second they all walk in the door, so Stan steers his brother through the pawn shop and upstairs immediately before the little gremlins can open their mouths and squawk questions like “what’s the insane asylum like?”, “are you a serial killer?”, or “what’s wrong with his hands?”.

 

Stanford stares at walls and floors instead, seemingly fascinated by the new surroundings as his chews on the sleeve of his sweater again. Stan does his best with the tour, ignoring the knot in his stomach from being back _here_. Hallway, living room slash kitchen slash dining room, then back through the hallway, door to their parents’- Ma’s room, bathroom, and finally the back bedroom where Stan shared a cramped space with his uptight older brother for nearly all his childhood.

 

“This used to be my room.” He halfheartedly points at places of ‘interest’. “Bed. Dresser. Lamp. Closet. Nothin’ special. Wonder where you would’ve slept if youda been here.” And then he curses himself, because that’s the worst thing he probably could’ve said. He warily glances at Stanford, watching for dismay or hurt on his face.

 

His brother doesn’t seem to have noticed (or maybe he did and he just won’t acknowledge it) as he wanders forward to the window, looking out at the grey sky and the alleyway behind the building.

 

“Stan! Get down here and help!” A gruff voice calls up the staircase. His other, always inexplicably irritable brother.

 

He sighs in annoyance, eyeing Stanford who had turned at the shout from downstairs. “I gotta go help pack up the shop. You good up here on your own? Least for awhile?”

 

Stanford gives him a displeased look.

 

“Oh, here.” Stan crouches down in front of the bottom bunk, getting on all fours and peering under the bed. The smell of dust hits him full force and he wrinkles his nose, bracing himself for possible spiders or roaches as he reaches forward, hands grasping around a bulky cardboard box. It takes some doing, because the thing is heavy and there’s a floorboard sticking up that creates an annoying lip he has to scoot the box over, but he finally hauls it out.

 

“These are Shermie’s old comics,” Stan explains to his twin, patting the box before unfolding the tabs. “We got uh… Batman, Superman, um…” He takes to lifting out stacks of thin crumbly paper comics, digging around. “Turok, Iron Man… you get the idea. Anyway, you can sit up here and read these while everybody’s downstairs.” He stops mid-brushing-off-his-jeans, squinting a little at Stanford, who had settled cross-legged on the floor. “You… _can_ read, right?”

 

Stanford’s unimpressed stare (past Stan’s ear, again, but still very much at him) gives him all the answer he needs. He holds his palms up placatingly. “Alright, alright, just thought I’d make sure. Have fun, jack.”

 

“Jack?” Stanford asks in a confused tone.

 

“It’s a nickname. Have fun, _Stanford_ ,” he corrects this time, turning to leave and hearing Stanford rustling through comic stacks over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon sours pretty quickly when Shermie makes a comment about Stanford being too stupid to be any help down in the shop. Should Stan have slapped him on his bad shoulder and told him to stop being such a schmuck? Technically no. But Stan likes to think yes, he should have, and he’s glad he did, even if that set off a yelling match among all the adults that he’s sure could be heard three blocks over, and nearly got his head ripped off by Sherm.

 

After that the Pines continue in silence--Stan nursing a headache because his family’s done a lot of yelling today--packing residual stock into boxes since Filbrick never believed in clearance, or sales, or god forbid liquidation, not even on his deathbed. Shermie’s got plans, apparently, according to Ma. They’re going to sell this stuff around town, and then drive whatever’s left back to California and sell it there.

 

 _Good luck_ , Stan thinks with an eye roll as he shoves a couple more old books in the box at his feet. _Not even Dad could get rid of this shit._

 

So busy shoving books and a couple tchotchkes into the box in front of him, he doesn’t hear the unsteady sneakers and jeans half-stepping, half-sliding down the stairs, or the door opening out into the shop. Doesn’t hear anything but the thump, thump, thump around him from his family packing things away. Not until a quiet whisper of “Stan?” and borrowed red sneakers enter his space. He looks up immediately, Stanford looking down at him with his fingers twisting their way into the arm of his red sweater.

 

“Oh. Hey,” Stan blinks, then casts a nervous glance at Shermie over his shoulder, who hasn’t noticed their brother is downstairs yet. Looking back at Stanford, he pats the wooden floor next to him, his twin dropping almost immediately and folding into a cross-legged position. “You get lonesome or somethin’?” He asks in a low voice, mindful about drawing attention to Stanford next to him.

 

His brother nods once.

 

“Well, you can stick close to me. Not much company right now, though.” Stan folds the box’s tabs over, shoving them half under other tabs so it’ll stay closed. Then he grabs another ready box a couple feet away, sliding it closer and stacking it on top of the first one. “Hey, grab those books for me, huh?” He points behind Stanford’s head, the man turning and touching the spine of one and looking back to check. “Yeah, those.”

 

They get into a system pretty easily. Stanford always double checks to see what Stan wants him to grab, Stan thanks him and stuffs it in the box, rinse and repeat. Shermie passes by the pair, giving them a raised brow glance, but doesn’t say anything about Stanford being down there with everyone. He’s probably happy Stanford’s helping instead of being ‘useless’.

 

It probably would’ve stayed fine if they hadn’t moved to the jewelry case once the bookshelves were emptied. Stan gets it--as a kid he used to stand there forever, it seemed like, staring at the gleaming shiny metal beneath the glass covering at the counter. Stan unlocks the case and lifts the lid, showing his brother how to pack the jewelry by dropping it in a small velvet bag. He tries to get Stanford to hold it, but…

 

The second Stanford’s fingers close around the velvet, his face twisting into disgust, marred with sharp pain as he lets go, the bag half-filled with jewelry thunking onto the wood floor. He steps back once, hands wringing violently at his sides as he squeezes his eyes shut, teeth gritted in pain.

 

“Hey, you okay?” Stan steps forward past the bag on the floor, hand half-reaching toward his twin in concern. Something echoes in his head, a memory. Wool used to make his skin crawl and feel as though it was set alight. He can’t stand to touch dried rice or beans without feeling nauseous. All afternoon his heart has been a little too fast because of how dirty and dust-coated his palms feel from touching the books in the pawn shop. “Hey, Stanford, hey. Is it the bag?”

 

Stanford nods, eyes still tightly closed, and Stan can hear his quiet but rapid breathing now he’s closer. Stan gingerly puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder, squeezing with just a little pressure. “Hey, it’s okay,” he tries to soothe, keeping his voice soft even as gravelly as it is. He wracks his brain, trying to think how to get Stanford to come back down from that place Stan is plenty familiar with. High up, mind whirling and twisting, mind fading out from being able to feel your body, everything going numb as your heart tries to beat its way through your ribcage.

 

“Hey, how ‘bout you touch the jewelry and I’ll hold the bag? You can just touch the metal. It’s all nice and smooth, your fingers just slide right on it. It’s all cold and feels good on your skin,” Stan continues, both hands on Stanford’s shoulders now as he talks. That always helps him, talking in his head about the good things to touch. Like paint fresh out of the tube, or cookie dough, or that really soft blanket McGucket has in his bedroom that he guards carefully because they both know Stan would make off with it if he got the chance.

 

A shaky inhale, and Stanford nods in acquiescence. Stan gives him a comforting shoulder pat and then bends down to retrieve the velvet bag so his brother can set about picking up the gold and silver in the case.

 

“What’s this?” Stanford asks quietly after a few minutes of work, almost all the jewelry cleared out now.

 

Stan glances down to see what his brother is tapping. Oh. It’s a faded and tarnished silver hamsa, with two red stones set into the palm. His eyes widen when he fully recognizes it: the hamsa pendant his aunt, Filbrick’s sister, used to wear. He’d only seen her a few times in his life, but she always took it off to let him fiddle with it. Stan remembers rubbing the pad of his thumb over the red circle stones, smoothing his finger across them for good luck like the pendant owners in his family had done for generations.

 

“It’s a hamsa hand,” Stan explains, reaching in and plucking it off the black paper covering the inside of the box, closing his fingers around it for a moment, holding it in his fist before uncurling his fingers to show it to his brother. Stanford makes no move to take it from his palm, instead touching his index finger to it again and, light as a feather, tracing the tip of his finger over the swirls in the patchy silver. Stan’s always been secretly glad no one wanted the hamsa after his aunt died and Dad put it in the shop for sale. He priced it too high for the condition it was in. Not even the most hardcore Jews in town wanted such tarnished silver when they could go get a new gleaming hamsa from the Orthodox jeweler a couple blocks over. Though, there were a few close calls here and there. Stan remembers being just fourteen and getting real chatty, talking up the other jewelry pieces in the box instead and sighing in relief as they passed over the hamsa again and again.

 

“Oy, are you two done yet?” Shermie calls across the room, straightening his back and beginning to scuff over to them across the scraped floors.

 

Before Stan can even react (and normally he’s got pretty good reflexes), Stanford snatches the hamsa from his palm and stuffs the pendant in his mouth, face not changing from its usual rest as he looks past Shermie’s shoulder when their brother stops in front of them. Stan blinks a couple times, then mentally shakes himself. “Keep your britches on,” he scoffs. “We’re done, alright?” He picks up the last item from the box and drops it in the bag, yanking the drawstrings closed and tossing it for Shermie to scramble to catch as he turns away, shutting the glass and wood lid with finality.

 

Shermie ‘hmphs’ and almost tosses his head, stalking away to where Ma and his wife are dusting the bookshelves off. Stanford’s eyes track their brother until he’s suitably far enough away, then swivels his head back around to Stan, spitting the hamsa into his hand and carefully rubbing his sweater sleeve over it to clean it off before handing it back.

 

Stan can’t help but smile lopsidedly. Who knew his twin was just as good at nabbing things as him? Taking the pendant, he shoves deep into his jeans pocket, winking at Stanford.

 

Stanford smiles conspiratorially back.


End file.
